Oh wife, can you hear it?
The scream of the jet bringing Steven home to you. Mother,
father, do you see it? The silver eagle carrying your son to
you.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a copy of The Columbia Daily Tribune
was found and handed to me. The headline, “Public invited to
welcome soldier home” was followed by a plea for Columbia
residents to ‘line the streets with American flags tomorrow to
honor the final passage through the city of a fallen soldier.”
The gaiety of the evening’s birthday celebration slipped away as
I read: Spc. Steven Fitzmorris had been killed by a sniper while
on patrol north of Baghdad . Specialist Fitzmorris was 26, the
father of two children ages 3 and 2, and the husband of Samantha
Jo Baker, 22. I looked at Spc. Fitzsmorris’s picture and saw a
beautiful young man, proudly wearing his uniform. My stomach
churned. So young. So much to live for. Sitting next to me was
my own son, William, a 22 year old Marine serving in the Marine
Reserves. It was his fiancé who would be on assignment the
following morning. I told Rose I would be there then handed the
paper to William. I watched his face as he read. The hardness of
his mouth, the change coming into his eyes. Passing the paper to
his father, he too committed to going. Suddenly the MU football
game we had been watching did not seem so important, and as his
father read, he too realized the enormity of what had happened.
All three of us would be at that airport along with Rose to
honor this man, to honor his family. For me, it was a simple
decision. This man died for me, my country, my freedom.
The next morning as my husband and I drove to the airport, we
talked about our country, the war, the loss of children. We
agreed that today, the public easily took our military for
granted. We talked about how newsprint, TV commentary, reporting
– all of it – produced a feeling of detachment. A number
representing casualties was something cold, distant, often
easily dismissed as one became engaged in the daily duties of
life. John commented on how easily Death almost unnoticed
crosses lives every day, every minute. Car accidents, farm
accidents, flight accidents – those were daily events. One could
hear of them and not really notice. Death is there. Among our
busy lives. Yet this was different. This time, total strangers
were being asked to stop. To think of why this man died and to
do more than flip the channel and continue their daily routines.
The Public was being asked to show respect and compassion for
this man’s family.
Turning down the road off Highway 63, my husband and I both were
disappointed not to see cars lining the road to the airport.
Then, the parking lot came into view- cars with flags waving,
people lined on either side of the walkway to the tarmac and
gleaming motorcycles glistening in the sun, each with its own
flag waving. On either side of the walkway leading to the tarmac
stood bikers with their gray hair, muscled tattooed arms,
veterans caps proudly proclaiming their military branch of
service, jackets covered with patriotic patches and military
pins, headbands, cowboy hats and boots, women tanned and hard
looking – Who were these people? Why were they there obviously
organized and showing deep respect? My husband pointed out the
emblem on each cycle: Patriot Guard Riders: Standing for Those
Who Stood For Us. I promised myself to learn more about this
group. Searching the crowd, we spotted Rose on the tarmac,
camera in hand. Then suddenly William’s voice, “There you are!”
from behind. I turned to see our son, dressed in his favorite
Heavy Rebel Weekender t-shirt, military haircut and dog tags
dangling from his neck. After hugging mom, he trotted up the
hill to greet Rose before returning to stand quietly between his
father and I.
Within minutes, the word was given that the plane was arriving
and the ceremony about to begin. All frivolity ended as men and
women snapped to attention, straightened lines, and quietly
marched onto the tarmac. There, the black hearse stood silently.
The Army’s honor guard in full uniform stood at attention as we
filed passed making two lines on either side of the hearse.
Across the tarmac, a group of people waited, watching the sky
and holding one another. A young woman with blonde hair kept an
eye on two toddlers. Behind her stood another woman, dressed in
black, long hair flowing down her back. An elderly couple stood
a little apart, occasionally redirecting the toddlers. Their
eyes never left the sky where the sound of an approaching jet
grew louder.
Gazing upwards, I noticed the orange wind sock, twisting and
turning, its mouth open like a giant fish. If only it could
catch the sorrow in the wind, I thought. Across from me, a tall
man stood chewing gum, watching the sky too. Up and down the
line men and women stood at military ease, feet planted shoulder
width apart, hands clasped behind their back. Some watched the
sky, others the hearse and others stared straight ahead, silent,
lips pressed into straight lines fighting back tears. For some,
the tears would not be held back but instead gently rolled down
creased faces. On either side of me sniffles betrayed the outer
calm and hands quickly brushed away tears. These men and women,
strangers to Spc. Steven Fitsmorris, mourned his death. I became
aware of a mechanical screaming and turned to see a silver eagle
gliding out of the sky, carrying its silent warrior. My god.
What must his family be thinking as they watched this bird
bringing home their child, their husband? Knowing that in the
belly of that plane, their son lie silent, in darkness, whatever
was left of this man they loved and held, he was up there,
slowly being returned to those waiting on the ground. What would
I as a mother feel as I watched my son being returned to me
forever gone? Then, quiet sobs rolled across the silence and the
young blond woman slowly knelt to hold her confused children.
Those children. They would never know their father. Not really.
Not ever. I thought of the beautiful young man of the picture
and what this loss meant to those two little ones, to him. Now
the group across the tarmac was holding the young mother while
the screaming grew louder and louder until the thump and whoosh
that signified landing was heard. The silver eagle with its
silent cargo flashed by those of us waiting, slowed and turned.
Quietly except for the gentle sobs, we waited. When the plane
drew to a stop, “Attention!” was barked and all went into
military attention. Hands flew to salute or went over hearts as
all eyes riveted forward. The honor guard marched from the
hearse to the plane. Clip. Clip. Clip. The sound of the military
heartbeat as somber men and women marched to greet their fallen
brother. Creaks and pings accented the air, childbirth sounds of
death as the doors opened and metal roller runways descended. A
black table bobbed up and down, muscles in contraction, awaiting
the heavy casket. I quickly looked forward again, tears
acknowledging the reality of this man’s life. Then the casket
rolled by. Flag drapped. So small. The black hole of the hearse
waiting. How does a wife, a mother look into that and know that
the blackness will soon cradle her loved one? How does a mother
or father watch this silent silver tomb roll by and know that
their child is within? How could one ever reconcile the
laughter, the vibrancy, the life of one so young being reduced
to this silent, heavy, flag draped thing? I would be screaming
“NO! NO! Come out of there!” Instead, I heard the words of a
hymn that has guided me through sorrow:
Be not afraid.
You shall cross the barren desert, but you shall not die of
thirst. You shall wander far in safety though you do not know
the way. You shall speak your words in foreign lands and all
will understand. You shall see the face of God and live.
Be not afraid.
I go before you always;
Come follow me,
And I will give you rest.
If you pass through raging waters in the sea, you shall not
drown. If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be
harmed. If you stand before the power of hell and death is at
your side, know that I am with you through it all.
Be not afraid.
I go before y ou always,
Come follow me,
And I will give you rest.
And then the doors closed. Somehow the family was gone and the
hearse moving. Those left on the tarmac were dismissed to follow
in the procession to the funeral home. I turned to William
because I needed to hold him, to thank God that he was there. We
walked tightly holding hands, silent. Each of us understanding
how precious life is. Upon arriving at his car, he broke free to
kid with his father who affectionately hugged his son. Sitting
in the car, watching the motorcade form my husband asked, “Do
you want to follow the procession?” I thought about that. There
was much to be done at home but, the family whose son was in
that hearse deserved full honor. So, we both decided we would
follow the procession to the funeral home.
As we drove down the previously empty road leading away from the
airport, we saw cars parked, flags waving in the breeze, and
people saluting the fallen soldier as the hearse passed their
way. Alongside the road, a man on a mower had stopped and was
paying his respect. We could not tell for certain, but it
appeared that he had mowed numbers on the side of the hill.
Perhaps they were the young soldier’s platoon number. Then, we
turned onto Highway 63. The first thing I noticed were the cars,
vans and trucks parked along the road on the other side of the
highway. Their drivers were paying tribute, too. On our side of
the highway, families stood with hand painted “Welcome Home” and
“We support our troops” signs. This would be the case all along
the route: people stopping on either side of the four-lane
highway. Signs hung out car windows, children holding flags,
chairs set up for the elderly. I wish there had been more. I
thought about Columbia ’s organization, Marine Parents. I knew
the organizer and though I could contact her. Maybe I could help
organize a phone list in the event should another soldier return
to Columbia . Couldn’t we get parents out and located every mile
along that route? It was something to look into. In fact, I
thought, maybe Marine Parents were there now. John commented on
how the presence of these people would have meant a great deal
to him had this been our son. Then we turned off the highway to
go through Columbia . Again, people were there – saluting,
standing quietly, showing their children how to hold the flag. I
thought to myself that there could have been more and would have
been had this been the Veteran’s Day Parade when candy is thrown
to the crowds and artillery rolls down the street. Now, the
pockets of men and women, children and students would be the
quiet testimony that strangers cared, understood, appreciated if
such a thing is possible.
Then we passed the cancer hospital. There, in wheelchairs and
walkers were men and women. Sunlight glistened off the tears of
one man’s face as he sat in his wheelchair, waving his flag.
Arriving at Memorial Funeral home, I couldn’t help but notice
the little metal signs along the tree-lined lane reading, “
Garden of Memories .” How appropriate, I thought. The Patriot
Guard Riders rode two-by-two and completely filled the little
lane leading to the funeral home. The bikes stood silently while
their riders paid their final respect to Spc. Fitzmorris. Only
after the casket was inside the building did they relax their
vigilance. Then, their group leader called them together. The
visitation time was given as was the time for the funeral on
Tuesday. These men and women would be at both events. For now,
Specialist Steven Fitzmorris and his family would soon be alone
with their memories, a new one that told them their loss was
shared. His contribution to his country was honored.
